


Raising Desmond

by Enchantedtalisman



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23191204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enchantedtalisman/pseuds/Enchantedtalisman
Summary: Death is…Death is not what Desmond expects. Well, truthfully, considering what was taught on the Farm was somewhat true (there are still parts that Desmond doesn’t agree with—like demanding the children to obey without question, or the lack of outside contact at all), he had expected, nothing. And not to say there isn’t nothing. The first place Desmond finds himself is an endless blue like the world is more starlight than actual physical presence.
Relationships: Ezio Auditore da Firenze/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Desmond Miles/Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Figured I might as well post this while I got the urge to work on it again. Enjoy <3

Death is…

Death is not what Desmond expects. Well, truthfully, considering what was taught on the Farm was somewhat true (there are still parts that Desmond doesn’t agree with—like demanding the children to obey without question, or the lack of outside contact at _all_ ), he had expected, nothing. And not to say there isn’t _nothing_. The first place Desmond finds himself is an endless blue like the world is more starlight than actual physical presence.

It takes a bit of trial and error to understand that this  _is_ the afterlife. Not a bad place  per-say —-except most of the people he knows are still alive. Hell most of the people he knows aren’t people he wants to talk too.  Except his boyfriend of three years and the man’s alive and well and has mostly moved on from his kidnapped presumably dead boyfriend. Desmond’s pretty glad, honestly, his heart hurts, he misses Oliver like hell, but he’s relieved Absterigo hasn’t gotten to him, or the Assassins. But everyone else?

Shaun is—was? Getting better about the assholery, but it had taken a while for him to pull some of the stick out of his ass. Not exactly Desmond’s best friend.

Rebecca? More focused on gadgets than being bffs. Desmond might miss her but not enough to wish her dead or wish her in a dystopia future where he survived. (He still feels sick at the thought of being some sort of Messiah to people)

The rest is a no brainer, his father is still an unrepentant asshole, even if he was  _proud_ of him. Desmond spends a good long while laughing at that. His dad was still so very full of himself, as if Desmond gave a  _crap_ about what his dad was or wasn’t proud of. 

Which brought him to his Mother, who Desmond had seen for half a second in this odd dimension until he had frantically thought  _No_ and hasn’t seen her since. He’s pretty relieved, honestly. He has no desire to meet any of his family. At least any family that isn’t further back in the dna pool.

Now he spent a majority of his time eating his favorite chips, watching the people on earth (because he  _needed_ to know what was happening to the Assassins), and debating if he should try to find his...Ancestors. The thought was scary enough at the idea of meeting  _one_ of them, but he has no idea how the ‘finding’ power even works. It seems to be mental and no matter how good he is Desmond knows himself. “I’ll think of all three of them and no, I can’t face all three of them at once.” He mutters shoving another handful of chips in his mouth.

Right now he’s watching  the Assassin Brotherhood, what is left of it, turn into a skeleton. The good thing about being dead, other than the unlimited food and tv and games, is that he can watch all the brotherhood, his father, and the new guinea pig for the Animus , all at the same time.

A  hot mess is what the world’s turned into. The scattered remains of the brotherhood keep getting caught and it’s no surprise. “I can’t believe they don’t use guns.” Desmond scowls remembering his ‘rescue’ in Abstergo. Probably didn’t help that Lucy was a mole, double agent? Triple Agent? Either way even  _Desmond_ knew how to use a gun and he had been out of the Assassin’s for years. All of his skills came from his Ancestors too. Well, except his gun skills, those were hard earned and he was a bit proud of them. Could out shoot most of his ‘buddies’ before he got a job that wasn’t so...under the table.

Things get worse, because they always seem to for the Assassins, after they get better everything becomes a shit show. William Miles leaves the Assassin’s; the man who should be Mentor and the one who knows enough to fix everything  _leaves_ . Because he’s  _grieving_ as if he ever gave a damn about Desmond.

Desmond doesn’t know if he wants to scream or find a bed—so far he hasn’t had the urge or need to sleep and spent most of his time in two rooms—this one that’s similar to the place he woke up. All starlight and blue tinting, a little hole in the ground he can watch the world from and swing his legs in time to his heartbeat. The other room has a ridiculously comfortable couch, painted walls of white cloaked figures (Desmond tries to pretend he doesn’t know every single one of them even with their faces covered), and all the gaming systems he could want. With a tv set up that would make any one on earth rage in jealousy.

So angry, Desmond is swear his vision whites out for a moment. Until he realizes that wasn’t his brain rebooting but something in this world.

“ It’s a shame isn’t it?” A voice says—wait, voice?

Desmond turns  quickly an assassin’s blade appearing on his arm and he pushes forward before he even thinks about it. Parry a sword that looks vaguely familiar. Dodge a punch. He kicks just like Connor, slamming his boots—shit, when did his pajamas change into his Assassin gear? Into the person—no, man’s side.

“Ah,” The man coughs, “Very good force behind it, but not good enough.” A familiar spin and twist and Desmond is on the ground his right leg aching something fierce.

“Who the fuck are you?” Desmond shouts, getting up through the pain. He’s not quite used to it anymore—he’s really let himself go in the afterlife. He didn’t know that was possible.

“Oouf,” Theatrically they press their hand against their chest, “Do you not recognize me, Desmond? After living through my entire life? My heart, it hurts like a thousand throwing knives have pierced it...” The man continues to ramble on about his heartfelt pain but Desmond loses track of his voice. Or at least the words, because now that voice is very familiar, if odd hearing the man speak English instead of Italian.

Ezio, and damn if Desmond is an idiot. There’s the curve of lips that Desmond—well, that doesn’t matter, he just knows those lips very well. That nose, the angle of his chin, his body width, even the width of his fingers.

“You—You are...” Desmond’s throat tightens and his heart starts pounding. As far as he’s been able to discern the dead can’t read the minds of the living (thank whatever deity or non-deity this place belongs too) but he still feels a little light headed and nervous. Not including the fact that he’s Ezio’s descendant, if very far apart by centuries, but damn if the small boy that he once was that hoped for his parents admiration _yearns_ just a little for Ezio’s praise. And, possibly _other praise—_ Desmond quickly shoves that thought into a corner of his mind to see the light of day when he’s _alone_.

“Yes, it is I, Ezio Auditore da Firenze,” Ezio bows theatrically and even looking as he does—mid thirties Desmond would guess, he does it elegantly and as flamboyantly as when he was younger, “Ah but not quite Firenze anymore, considering it’s not what it once was.”

“Right.” Desmond says, swallowing around the dryness that has taken his throat. He can’t help staring.

The man— _Ezio_ , is the same height as Desmond, with laughter lines and wearing clothing that is just tight enough to show the muscle underneath. Unlike his Assassin armor that Desmond wore—no, experienced, this clothing is tight and far more indulgent. Sleeves cutting off like a modern t-shirt around his biceps, leggings that look more like painted on pants. Even his smile is irresistible.

Desmond’s admiration and crush has rocketed into new territory.

In fact, he is ~~grateful~~ regretting the whole dying thing a lot more when Ezio holds out his arms and says, “Now, come here and give your Ancestor a hug. I have wanted to console you for _years_.”

Desmond’s incapable of saying _no_ , and that’s how he knows he’s officially screwed. Admittedly, it’s the best damn hug Desmond’s ever had, and the scent of wool, faded copper, and warmth is just enough to make it impossibly better.

“Do not worry, Desmond, I am here now.” Ezio says into Desmond’s hair.

Sobs leave Desmond abruptly, surprisingly, and he has to press his mouth against Ezio’s shoulder to muffle it. He heaves for breaths and tightens his hold. Embarrassingly grateful that Ezio doesn’t pull back or question his crying.

Ezio is kind enough to rub a soothing hand against Desmond’s back and rock them back and forth, “You did so well, Desmond, you are worthy of the title of Master Assassin.”

That just makes the crying worse and Desmond soon grows too tired to care about how humiliating it is. For the moment everything but the rising sorrow, and Ezio’s deep voice and strong embrace, drains away.

Safety. Warmth.

It’s almost foreign, Desmond thinks blearily, and grimaces at a bit of snot on Ezio’s doublet—he doesn’t want to know how _snot_ is a thing in the afterlife.

“You are loved.” Ezio tells him.

Desmond clings tighter. _Loved_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now if I had the energy to figure out where chapter three is going, that would be great. :joy:
> 
> Enjoy <3

_Later_ _,_ Desmond reminds himself, _later I will have time to freak out._ For now he tries to reign in his awe at seeing all of his ancestors in the same room as him. And smiling at him.

Okay so Altair only briefly tilts his lips but Desmond knows an Altair smile. The pat to his arm is also a good sign. Connor smile isn't very notable but his face softens interceptably. And he pulls Desmond into a hug.

“We have gathered you here for a reason.” Altair starts cutting straight to business.

Desmond frowns, “To say hello?”

Connor smile is apparent this time and he shakes his head. “No though all three of us are glad to meet you.”

“Right.” Desmond says, and can’t help the slight disbelief in his tone.

“ It is true,” Ezio says and out of all of them is the most affectionate. He wraps an arm around Desmond’s shoulder and smiles  roguishly. “We adore you, and your achievements. Connor is quite impressed with your  temperament , and Altair is impressed with how quickly you learn. I...enjoy the whole package.” While saying the last part Ezio gives Desmond a playful once over.

A hot flush runs across Desmond’s cheeks—and he’s grateful for his dark skin tone, it’s harder to see his own blush he’s sure.  Desmond knows it’s just Ezio being his usually flirty self but damn if it doesn’t make him feel  _ wanted _ . Specifically by a man that he’s dreamt about...and he can’t even blame the bleed effect for that.

“ We wanted,” Altair cuts in pointedly glancing at Ezio, “to request something of you. You have the right to refuse--”

“Though I do not think you will,” Connor puts in, and ignores Altair’s mild glare.

“But we will not coerce you, through any means,” Altair this time turns his glare to Ezio.

Who presses a hand against his chest, and sighs against Desmond’s ear, “Do you see what they think of me? My own great great great great---”

“Many greats so it’s almost as if you’re not related.” Connor says dryly.

“ancestor.” Ezio finishes with a huff, “Both of you ruin my fun, please tell me Desmond you are not a...what is the word? Party shitter.”

“Party pooper.” Desmond corrects, and it’s almost like the bleed effect when he hears what Ezio says just as his mind conjures the words;

“My phrase is better.” Ezio sniffs.

Altair pinches his nose and says, with restraint, “Let us continue the important part of this conversation.” He rubs at his nose one last time before looking at Desmond directly eye to eye, “We have found that us three, and you yourself, who have come in contact with the apples have...” He trails off and sighs.

“Powers, but considering what the afterlife allows a person to do they seem to have increased our threshold.” Connor continues either ignoring or not noticing Desmond’s sudden rigidity, “Because of these powers we have tried, unsuccessfully to rewrite time. But we think four is a good number.”

“I...you’re joking right?” Desmond asks, but he knows better, a younger Connor once joked, but the older the man grew, the more serious he became. He feels a pang for the once exuberant child he had lived life through. Admittedly Connor’s childhood and Ezio’s early free memories are probably the best of Desmond’s own memories considering his real life.

“No, we have tried with the three of us, but it seems to vary. The closest we came to with just three was perhaps ten years before Connor’s death.” Ezio says, losing  his light air, “But you are twenty five,”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Desmond says with a little too much bitterness. He had a life before Absterigo, and yeah maybe he hates himself a little but some small part of him still hates being this Mesiah either a dead or alive one. At least dead he didn’t have to have his words twisted.

Not that his father isn’t doing a good job of trying.

Ezio winces, “Ah, I know, it was not fair to you.”

“Not fair to any of us.” Connor adds darkly, crossing his arms and looking every inch the Master Assassin.

“ Not the discussion at the moment,” Altair adds, but his eyes and stance imply agreement with the others, “Again, we will not force your decision, but with you being twenty five even ten years could change your future for the better.” He walks up to Desmond and claps his hand on Desmond’s shoulder, “ I will always be here if you need me, I am quite,” He clears his throat and his eyes glance away which for Altair might as well be ducking his head in shyness, “proud of you Desmond Miles.”

Desmond swallows tightly around his dry throat. Why is it today that he decides to become all emotional?  _ Because these people have crafted me and made me into who I am _ . A part of his mind responds, and he has to agree with it. He was and would be an entirely different person without living beside, through,  and with his ancestors.

Altair seems to understand though, and claps his shoulder once more before turning and his reg alia from his previous life appearing as if by a gentle fog, where he too disappears.

“He is so dramatic.” Ezio sighs, and then kisses the side of Desmond’s forehead, “I have much love for you, Desmond Miles, do not worry whatever you pick.” And he too disappeared similarly dressed with an assassin hood.

Connor stood there for a moment before he tilts his head, “Should I hug you or will you combust like a badly maintained  rifle ?”

Desmond glare is half-hearted at best, and he isn’t expecting Connor to appear in a burst of speed that’s hard to see and hug him tightly to his chest. A very nice chest, “Desmond, very well done.” He whispers against Desmond’s ear before disappearing.

Desmond smells the barest hint of wood smoke, _ouch_ , and weirdly the scent of waterfowl before he can’t sense any of them anymore. He settles on standing there and trying to make sure every _second_ of these interactions are so deeply memorized that he can recall them with clarity. It helps that whatever part Isu his blood is, makes memorization and information gathering ridiculously easy.

Saying and doing are both different things, Desmond has known that since he was a child. Specifically because of his parents _saying_ and never _doing_ or the reverse. So, he’s quick on his decision the first day—no, he’s _tired_ , and doesn’t _want_ to go back and do it all over. The guilt and nervousness doesn’t go away for hours.

Until Desmond realizes that they really are going to wait. Wait until he makes a proper decision and calls them back.

Hesitatingly, Desmond waits a little longer, one day, two days, or what count as days pass. Sometimes he watches his...not successor because they’re all different people, but...subjects he supposed; running through each new life or old life of an assassin.

The way Abstergo treats them makes his mouth sour. It’s hard to think of watching all of this happen over and over again. And fuck watching the Assassin’s lose more and more? Something needs to change but unfortunately Rebecca and Shaun are all for being followers rather than leaders. Hell, he’s not sure what only two of them could do but he _knows_ them.

Both of them are brilliant. Brilliant enough to keep him alive and adjust the Animus on the fly, in fucking terrible locations for mechanical and software work. Obviously having William Miles as a leader isn’t helping their initiative. He doubts his father has any room for suggestions from the team.

For all the talk about freedom the current ‘Mentor’ seems more of a Dictator; Desmond thinks dismally.

More importantly, Desmond turns to the vacant area around him, and then his eyes glow gold and he can see the hints of where the others...worlds? Areas? Rooms? Are. They are close, surprisingly. He still has no idea how he _knew_ but it’s that same feeling when he’s near an important person and his sixth sense—eagle vision would tell him to _focus_.

So he had, the second day after his...ancestors had shown up. And even after being nearby for three days, close enough that Desmond is sure if he walked north or east or west he could just...drop into their ‘room’ so to speak. They haven’t, not once, and no matter how much he instinctively trusts them, he knows the eagle vision and honed senses would wake him if they had entered while he was sleeping.

Picking after that knowledge is a little harder. Watching his father and the mess on earth isn’t helping.

“Why can’t there be simple choices?” Desmond asks, and he doesn’t realize he’s talking at Connor’s wall until the man appears himself.

Only a step between their ‘worlds’, but he’s there, almost faded as if he’s stuck between two walls, “Was that rhetorical?” He asks, acting as if he doesn’t look half ghost.

“I--” Desmond stares, “Can you come in? It’s fucking weird, that--” He waves at the echoey form of Connor. Like a half distant wave or the Animus not fully loading.

“If you are sure,” Connor murmurs and steps fully into Desmond’s room. He leans against the ‘wall’ he entered from without a hint of worry of falling back in. “You had a question?” He asks.

Right, a question. A question that seems silly now that he has Connor here. But all his _other_ questions feel just as inadequate. Like if Connor ever hated being an Assassin; anyone with eyes would see his frustration with the restrictions Juno placed on him; the fucking crazy fake-deity. Asking if he ever found that peace that Altair and Ezio seemed to...well, it just sounds insulting now that they’re face to face. And okay so his whining wasn’t meant for Connor’s ears but now that the man’s here, Desmond blurts out, “Why? Why did you keep going?”

Connor looks up, his face is younger here, close to when he was thirty or forty, and it’s so odd to see the stern set from his older visage on this younger face. “Ah,” Realization of what Desmond is speaking of, “It was at the time what was best for the future, and of course I was tricked partially. I suppose most of all is that...the Order had done so much I grew tunnel visioned.” He shrugs and scratches at a bit of subtle that has grown since last they spoke (Desmond doesn’t want to try to understand how that works at all in this afterlife), “If I did it again I would have focused my attentions on my kin more so than the colonies I suppose. But then the Order would have little to oppose them. In a sense I do not regret breaking the Order’s hold where I could.” A shark like smile appears for a few seconds across his lips.

So no easy choices, “Huh.”

The fact that Connor smiles knowingly is clear that he knows what Desmond was reaching for. He rolls his shoulders, “You will have to decide on your own, Desmond. I cannot interfere or they will have my head. Or at least try.” There’s that cockiness that is so familiar in a younger Connor. It might be a little more hidden, but Desmond is glad to see it.

There’s hardly any kindness in an Assassin’s life and he at least hopes the last...damn, century? Or more? Has been healing to his Ancestors. He could use some...healing...right about now… Desmond stops thinking for a moment and replays what he just said. He wishes he could heal. Then his gaze turns to the earth at large. More specifically his shit of a father.

What would it be like for a young Desmond to _not_ have to live through his father’s gracious training? He might be an actual functional adult. Hell he might be properly prepared for Juno’s manipulations—the manipulations on the street, if he hadn’t been so sheltered and solely focused on Assassin training.

Blending is one thing, _living_ is entirely another.

“Ah, decided then?” Ezio asks from behind Desmond and _fuck_ maybe they _can_ sneak up on Desmond.

“Y-yeah, shit don’t do that.” Desmond rubs at his chest where his heart is slowing down from it’s rabbit pace.

“He has a terrible sense of humor, I’ve found.” Says Altair and his lips twitch when Desmond jumps again.

“I see where he gets it from.” Desmond huffs. He shakes his head and then looks at his Ancestors. Breathing through the sudden nerves. All he has to do is tell them what he’s decided. But it feels too large, such a gigantic, utterly impossible choice and the three Ancestors who were and no doubt _are_ superior to Desmond in many ways not including staying away from the fucking Templars, are letting _him_ choose.

“We will support you, no matter what, Desmond.” Ezio says, clasping Desmond’s shoulders and pulling Desmond from his thoughts.

“Right.” Damn, is this what it feels like to have total support? Have someone who actually gives a shit? He hasn’t had that for several years. Even Lucy when she wasn’t backstabbing them all hadn’t fully been behind Desmond.

Both Altair and Connor, at a quick glance, show the same softening look—okay perhaps it takes more than a quick glance to read them, but he can see it, which is a relief.

“I want to go back. Make it better for me—for the Assassins.” Desmond adds the last bit feeling slightly selfish.

“For you is good enough.” Ezio pats Desmond’s arms, and looks expectantly at Connor and Altair.

“The mission should come first...” Altair starts before Ezio gives him a faint glare, “But you have done much for the Brotherhood and the world at large. A little selfishness is to be expected.”

Connor shrugs, “I already told you what I would do if I had gone back. This is no different, your younger self needs a family. What better than us?”

“Good! Let us begin!” Ezio says with cheer and holds out his hands.


End file.
